Jon Merz - Raider X

“Right now? Can’t it wait?”

Thatcher paused. She clearly wasn’t feeling well and he felt a bit like a heel for pressing the issue on her. That said, Schwarzwalder had made it clear they had a time limit here before he would be forced to radio the situation in.

Cyra grabbed his hand suddenly and Thatcher nearly jumped when he felt how icy cold it was.

“Oh Harrison, I do so wish we’d made it to Lisbon. We would be in the city right now enjoying a sumptuous meal. And you might have even introduced me to some of your gin cocktails.”

Thatcher smiled. “I might have at that.” He grasped her hand. “You’re freezing. Can I get you another blanket?”

“I don’t feel cold,” said Cyra. “I don’t think it’s all that necessary, to be honest. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a little while. I just need to get some good rest. Let me sleep this off and in the morning, I’ll be all right.”

“When we were on board the Archimedes,” Thatcher started to say. But then he stopped.

Cyra looked up at him. “Darling, please let me sleep. I promise I’ll answer all your questions in the morning.”

Thatcher took a breath and let it out slowly. Finally, he nodded. “All right then. But do rest up and get better. We have some rather pressing issues to address once you’re able to speak about them.”

“I promise,” said Cyra.

Thatcher rose from the bunk and then walked to the door before switching the light off. He glanced back at the bunk but all he saw was the gentle rise and fall of Cyra’s chest as she felt back to sleep.

Thatcher turned back to the door, knocked softly and it opened. He walked out into the corridor and looked at Cyra’s guard. “What did she have for supper?”

“Schnitzel,” said the guard.

Thatcher nodded. The same meal as he had eaten and Thatcher had felt no ill effects from it. If anything, it had actually been quite good. Still, some people had adverse reactions to meals that couldn’t quite be explained. He glanced at his own guard. “Is it too late to see the Captain?”

“Right now?”

Thatcher nodded. “Yes, it’s important.”

Thatcher’s guard sighed and then nodded for Thatcher to follow him. As he started to do so, he glanced at Cyra’s guard. “She’s not feeling well and is sleeping. But it probably wouldn’t hurt to check in on her from time-to-time.”

The guard nodded once and then resumed his position as Thatcher followed his man down the corridor.

They found the Captain still on the bridge and Thatcher waited for Schwarzwalder to give his okay before he stepped onto it. He nodded at Thatcher as he approached. “You’ve seen her?”

“Briefly,” said Thatcher as he looked out across the bow of the ship. It was plowing through the waves at a good speed. No doubt, Schwarzwalder wanted to make for the tip of Africa as quickly as possible to get into the Indian Ocean. “But she’s feeling ill at the moment and my attempts to question her were fruitless.”

Schwarzwalder frowned. “Did her meal not agree with her?”

“Perhaps,” said Thatcher. “But it’s more likely that the boarding earlier did more to upset her than the schnitzel. A good night’s rest ought to see that corrected one would expect. I’ll be sure to ask her questions in the morning. But I thought you should know that I did try to ask her now.”

Schwarzwalder nodded his head. “I appreciate you keeping me updated. I had hoped to radio this situation in right now, but obviously, I’ll need to wait a bit before doing so.”

“Where are we now?” asked Thatcher. With the darkness, there was no way to get any sort of indication where they might be, although even if it had been daylight, Thatcher might only have seen the sea surrounding them.

Schwarzwalder pointed to their left. “That way lies the Mediterranean. Gibraltar as the gateway to it.” He nodded ahead of them. “We’re steaming south right now. We’ll pass Casablanca probably before breakfast.” He sighed. “If only we had the Suez Canal, we’d shave nearly two weeks off our travel time. But the Brits are obstinately defending Egypt at the moment and that renders such a course impossible. So we sail around the Cape and hope for the best.”

“Is it always a hard go?”

Schwarzwalder shrugged. “It depends on the seasons, mostly. But we shouldn’t have any problems. The biggest danger is any of the British naval vessels we might encounter along the way, but we have some more advanced radar on the ship that should enable us to avoid them.”

“And once we make it to the Indian Ocean?”

Schwarzwalder looked at him. “My goal is to not have you or the woman on this ship by that point. If we can solve this murder ahead of that time, I’ll put in at a friendly port and get you both off of my ship. I have orders to carry out and frankly, I’d be better off doing so without having to play host to two civilians. You understand, I’m sure.”

Thatcher held up his hand. “No offense taken, Captain. Just making idle chat.”

Schwarzwalder paused for a moment and then nodded. “Let us hope the woman is well enough in the morning to discuss the matters of importance.”

“I hope so, too.”

“In that case,” said Schwarzwalder. “I wish you a very good night’s sleep, Mr. Thatcher.”

But despite the Captain’s sincere wish for Thatcher to sleep well, he did not. Thatcher tossed and turned all night long, finally awaking around six-thirty full of frustration at not having been able to get the sort of deep restful sleep he knew his body craved. He splashed some water on his face and threw on some of the clothes that the German sailors had provided for him. A knock at his door signaled the entrance of his guard who bore a tray of food.

“I heard movement so I figured you were awake.” The guard was different from the fellow that had been there most of yesterday and Thatcher smiled at him.

“I was, thanks. Is that breakfast?”

The guard nodded. “My name is Steinkopf, if you need anything.”

Despite his attempts to hide his fluency in German, Thatcher could not repress a smile. “Steinkopf? Really?”

The guard grinned sheepishly. “My ancestors were miners who worked quarries for many years. They were known as the ‘rock heads’ and the name just stuck, I guess.”

Thatcher took the tray of food from him and nodded his head. “Well, it’s a great name. Much better than something as boring as ‘Thatcher.’”

Steinkopf smiled and then backed out of the room. “If you need anything, please let me know.”

The door closed and Thatcher sat down to the meal before him. The simple meal of some type of warm pudding with a few links of sausage and strong coffee with a packet of sugar was demolished in a few minutes as Thatcher realized he was ravenous. If he could have done so without insulting his hosts, he might have even asked for another tray of the stuff, but he figured that the sailors wouldn’t be getting seconds so there was no way he would, either.

Plus, he didn’t want to single himself out as demanding extra special treatment. At the moment, he had a decent relationship with Schwarzwalder. All of a sudden becoming a pain in the ass would jeopardize that and he needed it intact if he was to accomplish anything of value for Hewitt, who loomed forever in the back of his mind like some unforgotten nightmare.

He wondered what it must have been like for his handler, sitting in some office back in bombed-out London. Was he anxiously awaiting updates? There was obviously no way that Thatcher could reach out, but did Hewitt have other methods for obtaining information about what his sacrificial lamb was up to? He was certain that Hewitt knew the Archimedes had been taken by Raider X, that much seemed sure. But would he have any other means to avail himself of or was he simply in the dark and hoping against hope that Thatcher would succeed? More to that point, did Hewitt go through this every single time he sent one of his operatives off on a mission? It must have been excruciating, thought Thatcher. You send someone off and then you have to wait to hear anything that indicated they were either successful…